


La Relance

by ifyoucouldfly



Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Restaurant, Anxiety, Claustrophobia, Mentions of Past Overdose, Multi, everyone's a gay chef hooray, i have literally no clue what i'm doing i just gotta write it
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-05-26
Updated: 2016-05-30
Packaged: 2018-07-10 10:48:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,768
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6981247
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ifyoucouldfly/pseuds/ifyoucouldfly
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Eric Bittle has worshipped culinary icon Bob Zimmermann since he was nine years old. Jack Zimmermann has lived in his shadow since birth. Eric Bittle learned to bake in his mother's tiny kitchen in his little house in Georgia. Jack Zimmermann has trained with some of the world's most renowned chefs since he was ten. Eric Bittle carries his fear on his cheek. Jack Zimmermann holds it in his bones.</p>
<p>When their worlds meet, it's not exactly pretty. Rather, it's a whole lot of misunderstandings, chirping, nudity, discovery, tub juice, skating, questionably "authentic" French cuisine, tears, laughter, hate, love, and most importantly, pies.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> I'm not at all sure what I'm doing here, and I'm not at all proud of this intro. I really just needed to write this, and it's been YEARS since I've put any works out there. Leave it two these dumb gay hockey dorks to get me writing again. Also; I feel like this has to have been written somewhere before, either here or on tumblr, but I haven't been able to find anything so I hope not? If it has, I'm sorry, and just know I'm not trying to copy your work or anything. Speaking of tumblr if any of y'all are interested in some prime garbage follow me! My url is "zimmbcni" and we can scream together and whatever.

For as long as Eric Bittle could remember, Bob Zimmermann had been a huge part of his life. 

He watched his cooking show with his mother every Sunday. He wore his PJ’s to bed. He read his cookbooks like bedtime stories. Because in a tiny town full of people who could never possibly understand him, baking was his solace, and if Bob Zimmermann could emerge from some tiny town in Quebec to take the culinary world by storm, then so could he. The hope he held of one day leaving this place, of realizing his dreams, of becoming something greater, was what drove him on when it seemed like there wasn’t anything else.

And after a hard day at school, when his stomach was weighed down with the heavy rock of self-doubt, he would shuffle into a kitchen he knew like the back of his hand; the creaking, water-damaged floorboards, the dents in the wall Coach would hit when he opened the cupboards, the cooking utensils worn down to the bone from years of merciless stress-baking from both Eric and his mother, and his grandmother before them.

On these days, Eric would take a slow, shaking breath, and as he let it out, he would let go of the nagging voices in his head, the ones that told him he would never make it out of this town. He would brush his fingers across the framed “Bob Zimmermann’s One-Step Method to Becoming a Professional Chef” that his mother had hung above the sink. And he would bake.

 

(Bob Zimmermann’s One-Step Method to Becoming a Professional Chef:

Love to cook.)

 

Stupid as it may seem, those three words were a proverb to Eric. After all, they were what gave him the confidence to pursue a career in culinary arts. To make it into Johnson & Wales University’s culinary school. To finally escape Madison.

They drove him to the top of his Baking and Pastry class. They drove him to (slowly but surely) emerge from the shell he'd built to survive the suffocating atmosphere of he'd always known in Madison.

And now, they'd driven him here, to a tiny shithole of an apartment in east Queens with nothing but a suitcase full of clothes and a nervous jump in his heart.

Five weeks ago, his Culinary Arts professor had let it slip that one of Bob Zimmermann’s restaurants was hiring. “It’s his smallest one.” She’d warned as the entire class practically burst into flames. “A side project, really. But still, it’s under the Zimmermann franchise. And I’ll be recommending one of you for the job. Whoever I think will be the best fit.” Eric’s heart was already thrumming in his chest, even before she announced, “They’re hiring for a pastry chef’s position.” At that, he had lost all feeling in his limbs, and the entire class had groaned in frustration and shot envious looks his way. He was certain he'd get the recommendation, and four days later, he did. Six days after that, he got the call.

And now he was here, quite painfully aware of the fact he truly was a country-boy-in-the-big-city stereotype and quite blissfully unwilling to give a shit about it.

Things were looking up for Eric.

~~~

For as long as Jack Zimmermann could remember, Bob Zimmermann had weighed over every move he made. 

The clothes he wore, the places he went, the people he hung out with; everything was subject to public scrutiny. Every little move he made was compared to his father’s (“At his age, Bob was already working as a chef”, “He just seems so distant, not at all like his father”, “Is that how Bob Zimmermann would have done it?”) Even cooking, the brightest light in his life, was dimmed by the constant, nagging fear of failure. Of never being good enough to become anything more than a shadow of his father.

So Jack, in turn, worked his (marvelous) ass off. He would skip all the parties his best friend Kent went to. He’d sacrifice grades for more time in the kitchen. He withdrew into himself, desperate to prove to the world he wasn’t just Bob Zimmermann’s son. He gave up everything for cooking. His eye was on the prize, the prize being ownership of one of Bob’s most renowned restaurants, Ace. In fact, it was second only to Bob’s first restaurant, Manchot, which had crafted him into the chef he was today. It was the perfect place for Jack to prove himself. He could see so clearly; Jack Zimmermann, taking his father’s restaurant and making it his own, making a dynamic impression in the culinary world.

And so, when his father gave Ace to Kent instead, it had been a knife in the gut.

After emerging from rehab three weeks later and a thousand years older, being given La Relance only twisted the blade.

Relance was a side project, little more than an excuse to spread the franchise to Madison Avenue. Kent had been granted a feast, and Jack had been thrown the scraps.

It nearly broke him again. It would have, had he not realized that he'd been given the ultimate opportunity to prove himself. He would take a novelty, a curiosity, a little fling doomed to fizzle out, and he would turn it into something great.

And so he took La Relance. He staffed it with the greatest people he could ever hope to have on his side. And he began his slow but steady rise.

Things were looking up for Jack.


	2. One

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bitty goes to work like the classy little working man he is. Then he kind of fucks up. In the most cheesily, over-dramatic, stupid way I've ever written. So sorry. (P.S. Jack is a Jackass) (like he's a fucken jerk).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Gaaah! Okay so thank all of y'all that have supported this so far (there was WAY more support for this than I thought there would be at first), it seriously means a lot, especially since I stressed out so fucking much about posting this. Okay so on to the warnings: I've never worked in a kitchen. I have no clue how it works. I've also never been to New York City. I have now clue how it works. I'm just kind of winging it, so if I'm fucking up, PLEASE TELL ME! I want to know if I need to change something. Also fair warning: if you think this chapter is disgustingly corny and kind of stupid, ME TOO. So hey gurl hey.

Eric had never thought that he might ever miss anything about Madison, Georgia, but now he couldn’t help but feel a little homesick. And he’d thought moving to Providence had been a culture shock.

Everything here was so cramped; the hundreds of people sharing one sidewalk, the cars packed together like sardines on the roads, the skyscrapers that seemed to curl over the streets and blot out the sky entirely. It wasn’t exactly the best living situation for a tiny, claustrophobic southern boy.

What’s more, there was grime everywhere; riding up the walls of his shower, caked underneath his fingernails; even here, etched into the handrails on the subway...oh Lord, the subway. 

Eric wasn’t exactly enthused about the idea of waking up at the unholy asscrack of dawn to go scurry past a rat bigger than your Moo Maw’s cat to just narrowly squeeze into a train car with a few dozen other people, but that’s exactly what he was doing at the moment.

He tried not to stumble like an idiot every time the train stopped and started. He tried not to stare at the other passengers. He tried not to freak out about the creepy old guy a few feet away staring at him. He tried not to think about the fact that he’d have to make this hour-and-a-half trip every morning to get to work.

Instead, he turned his focus inward, nervously tapping his hands on his thigh as he mentally listed everything that could possibly go wrong with today. _“They could all be assholes. They could all be homophobes. They could all wake up and realize what a mistake they’ve made in hiring me.”_

Eric couldn’t help but question how he’d made it this far. He’d had no professional experience at all. He’d only been in culinary school for a year. He was _nineteen years old_ , for gosh’s sakes. And they hadn't even asked to meet him before hiring him.

Eric glanced down at his watch and let out a little panicked gasp. He was supposed to be at work by 6:30, it was already 6:25.

The train screeched to another halt (he only tipped forwards a little this time, he was getting better), and Eric rushed to squeeze through the doors and out into the train station, moving as fast as his legs could take him without flat-out running.

At this rate, he was going to be late. On his first day. To a job he already didn’t deserve.

Eric moved a little quicker.

~~~

Jack was already in the kitchen when Lardo pulled open the front door to La Relance. 

This wasn’t anything new; Jack was always there before anyone else, sneaking out the door god-knows-how-early, going for a quick jog, showering, then making his way downstairs to the restaurant. She’d tried to get him to sleep in a few times. It had never worked. Lord knows how the idiot hadn’t collapsed from exhaustion yet.

“You know, the manager’s generally supposed to show up before the staff. You’re making me look bad here.” She called, strutting into the kitchen and watching as Jack rifled through the pantry taking inventory. 

“Mm.”

Lardo rolled her eyes. “Right. I know I shouldn’t expect a conversation out of you this early.” 

“Mm.”

Silence washed over them; it was a comfortable quiet, but it still made Lardo a little antsy. “So...the new chef’s coming in today.” 

Jack, in all of his dramatic dweebish glory, bolted upright and hit his head on the shelf above him. “ _Crisse!_ ” He hisses, rubbing the back of his head as he slowly turned to face her. “What new chef?”

Lardo snorted, raising an eyebrow. “You were being an ass about getting a new pastry chef. So I got you one.”

She watched the muscles in his jaw jump as he kneaded his scalp. “And you didn’t think to consult me first?” 

“I did!” Lardo cried, throwing her hands up in exasperation. “And every suggestion I made, you had a problem with - not young enough, not fresh enough. So I got you someone young. And definitely fresh.” 

Jack shivered at the smirk that stretched across her face. “ _Merde_ , Lardo, don’t tell me you hired someone just to spite me.”

“I hired someone just to spite you.”

“I thought I told you not to tell me.”

Lardo squinted at him, grinning. “Was that a dad joke? I honestly can’t tell. You never resort to dad jokes this early in the morning. I must’ve really screwed this one up.”

Jack’s mouth twitched upwards it what could have been a smile, before it drew into a scowl again. “Just tell me he knows what he’s doing.”

Lardo’s grin faltered. “I, ah...I don’t know. I haven’t met him yet.” Jack’s huge eyes grew wider, and she rushed to explain. “But! But, he was recommended to me by Professor Martin at Johnson and Whales. She said he’s got skills. And he’s nineteen - that young enough for you?”

“Fuck, Lardo, nineteen?! Has he ever even -”

Jack was cut off as by the front door slamming open hard enough to leave a dent in the wall, as well as the “GoooOOOoooOOOOooooOoood mORning, fucktrucks!” that followed immediately after.

“Morning, Shitty!” Lardo cried, grateful for the interruption.

Shitty appeared in the doorway, glancing back and forth between the two as he pulled his hair back into a bun. “Am I interrupting something?”

“Nope!” Lardo cried at the same time Jack gritted out a “Yes”. 

Shitty nodded, mustache sliding upwards as he grinned. “Well, alrighty then. Anyone want to fill me in?”

“Lardo hired somebody new. Without telling anyone.”

Shitty’s eyebrows drew together, glancing down at Lardo. “Nah, brah, she told me.”

“She told us, too.” The three turned to watch their saucier Holster duck his head through the kitchen door, followed by his counterpart, Ransom. 

“Who else did you tell?” Jack asked, swiveling back to face Lardo, who gave him a shrug. “I think pretty much everyone. Maybe not the waiters - nah, nevermind. I told Tango, too, he probably filled the rest of ’em in. Sorry, dude, you're the last to know.”

Jack held her eye for a long moment before turning his attention back to the pantry. “Right. Everyone, start prepping. We open in four hours.” 

The rest of his staff shuffled in through the door as Lardo retreated into her office, and Ransom, Holster and Shitty made their way to their respective stations.

Ten minutes passed, and Jack glanced at his watch disapprovingly. Kid was late. This didn’t bode well for him. 

Five more minutes ticked by. He'd just convinced himself that the kid had gotten cold feet when the door creaked open with a timid, heavily accented, “Hello?”

~~~

Eric was screwed. He was so, so screwed. 

He’d heard rumors about Jack Zimmermann’s disposition, his intolerance for unprofessionalism, and now here he was, showing up fifteen minutes late to a job he wasn’t remotely qualified for. This was going to be a bloodbath. 

Eric stared up at the door in front of him. The restaurant was impressive, at least on the outside, with a large mahogany door set into a canvas of pale white stone. Above the door, _'La Relance'_ was scrawled out in golden, slanted lettering. Vines creeped up the walls from cracks in the sidewalk outside, curling around the darkened windows and reaching up towards the apartment space above the restaurant.

Eric shifted back and forth on his feet. _“Well, it’s technically not too late for me to just turn around and run. I’m sure Professor Martin would take me back. Maybe. Mama wouldn't disown me. Coach might.”_

He glanced down the street, debated running, and instead shoved open the giant doors and stepped inside.

“Hello?” Eric called out into the unlit room, wandering forward and taking a look around.

The restaurant was...impressive. Rows of unset tables stretched out behind the reception desk, stopping at a sleek, simple bar in the corner. The walls were stark-white, and on either side of the room, vibrant green ferns bloomed from planters that ran the length of the walls. The ceiling stretched up far overhead, and a massive contemporary chandelier dangled from the center. 

“There you are!” A voice cried from behind him, and Eric let out an embarrassing little shriek.

He whirled around and came eye-to-eye with one of the most impressive mustaches he’d ever witnessed. Its host, a loudly cackling, man-bun adorning man a good four inches taller than him, clapped him on the shoulder.

“Sorry bout that, ya little fucker. And I mean little in the most impersonal of ways. Nah, who am I kidding, man, you’re fucking tiny. Oh, ah, right. My name’s Shitty, I’m the sous chef, and I’m gonna show you the ropes and shit. Fuck’s sake, brah, don’t look so terrified, I’m not gonna bite your head off. Now Jack, he might. You’ve got balls showing up late first day. Kidding, kidding, I’m sure it was an accident. Hey, I don’t think we’ve been properly introduced before. What’s your name?”

Eric blinked, opened his mouth, shut it, blinked again. “Um. I’m Eric. Bittle.”

The man - Shitty - let out another belt of pealing laughter. “Holy shit, no way! You’ve made my job way easier, brah, the nickname’s practically crafted itself.”

Eric blinked slowly again, feeling like a moron. A combination of nerves and disbelief at his current situation had seemingly sucked all of the southern charm out of him, and all he could do was stand there gulping like a fish out of water. “What’s that?”

“Bitty! That’s your name now. It’s like your name, Bittle, plus, you know, you’re itty bitty. It makes sense. Everyone needs a name-based nickname, that’s how it works in all four-star, critically acclaimed restaurants. Just kidding brah. But for real, everyone’s got a nickname here. It’s a rite of passage.”

Eric felt his pulse start to slow, allowing a small smile to slip through. “So where’d you get Shitty from, then?”

Shitty shook his head. “Sorry, brah. That’s confidential information right there. But hey, kitchen’s this way. The others are all in there. Dying to meet you, trust me.”

Eric’s pulse jumped again as he followed Shitty towards the kitchen. 

“After you, my good sir.” Shitty boomed, propping open the door and allowing Eric to duck in with an amused, “Why, thank you.”

He was met with eight people staring back at him.

“Lady and gents, this here is Bitty.” Shitty announced, flinging an arm over his shoulder. “Bitty, these are your coworkers. Those three hooligans are our line cooks, Dex, Nursey, and Chowder. Our waiters are over here - that’s Tango, Whiskey, Jenny, and Mandy. Over there is our potager, Ransom, and the massive guy giving him a piggy back ride is our saucier, Holster. And of course, right here is the lovely Lardo, our manager and bartender extraordinaire. Any questions?”

Eric shook his head. “No, I think I’ve got it. Um, it’s nice to meet y’all.”

“Oh my GOD, Lardo, he’s fucking adorable. Where did you find him?” The massive one with the blue eyes, Holster?, cried.

“Can we keep him? Please?” Ransom added, swinging his legs back and forth from atop Holster’s shoulders.

Lardo was a short (thank God, everyone else here was a damn giant) asian girl with eyes like Shitty’s - full of a spark of something that was a little exhilarating and at the same time incredibly terrifying. Eric found himself immediately liking her. “We’ll see. Alright, Bitty, you’re stuck with that knucklehead for the rest of your training, so he’ll show you over to your-”

“You’re late.” A heavily accented voice growled out, and Eric spun to come face-to-face with his childhood idol.

It took him a solid five seconds of panic to realize that it wasn’t actually Bob Zimmermann that was currently glaring down at him; it was his son. 

His son, who had cheekbones like a model, a jawline you could cut a pie with, and the biggest, bluest eyes he’d ever seen. Said eyes were currently filled with a look that could best be described as ‘murderous’.

A different kind of panic set in.

“R-right. I am so, so sorry about that, it’s totally unprofessional of me, I just -”

“I didn’t ask for excuses, eh? Get to your station. Get to work. Don’t let it happen again.” Jack stalked off in the opposite direction, leaving Eric flustered and blushing like mad. He knew how stupid he looked right now, and he could feel the whole kitchen staring at him. God, he just wanted to curl up in a ball and die.

Shitty whistled, watching Jack's retreating back. “Hoo boy. He’s really pissed. Ah, sorry about that, brah. He’s been sorta on edge lately. Here, come on this way, I’ll show you to your station.”

Shitty proceeded to give him the tour, and as he went on, Eric began to relax a little more. He got to mingle with the other staff a little; Ransom and Holster had come on a little strong at first, but turned out to be real easy to talk to. Lardo and Shitty were hilarious together, as were Dex and Nursey with their constant stream of playful bickering. Their friend, Chowder, a wiry Chinese boy with eager eyes and a mouthful of braces, had instantly worked his way into Eric’s heart.

Now, he stood at his station, humming to himself as he beat his eggs. The kitchen was considerably more crowded than the culinary school’s, and Eric was feeling a slight pressure in his chest, but he tried his best to ignore it. He was fine, this was fine. He was going to make this pie, wipe that scowl off Jack’s face, and have a great goddamn time -

That was when things went to shit.

It started with Holster and Ransom sidling up next to him. “Sorry, brah, we gotta get in these cabinets real quick.” And then they were reaching above him, closing him in.

The thing about panic attacks is that they don’t just happen. It’s not like in the movies, where someone sees or experiences something that could trigger them and immediately breaks down. They build up over time. So it was a combination of stress, humiliation, buzzing nerves, and now being suddenly crammed up against the wall that set it off.

Eric’s heart was suddenly pulsing like a rabbit’s. His ribs felt like they were constricting around his lungs. Everything was tilting. This wasn’t a panic attack yet. But he could feel it coming on. _“Calm down Eric you’re being pathetic oh my God why can’t you just do this simple task it’s not a big deal calm down calm down it’s fine nothing’s happening Eric calm down. You CANNOT do this here -”_

His instinct kicked in, and he surged away from Ransom and Holster, trying to squeeze out from in between them. He didn’t mean to knock them over in the process.

Eric fell first, his ingredients spilling with him. Then it was Holster, who dragged the contents of the cabinet with him as he knocked into Ransom, sending a pile of plates crashing to the floor and shattering.

For a second, everything was silent. Then he began to babble.

“Oh my Lord, y’all, I am so - I’m so sorry, God, here, don’t move, let me clean this up -”

“You.” 

Eric’s heart dropped to the floor, watching as Jack Zimmermann rushed over. 

“Mr. Zimmermann, sir, I am so incredibly sorry, I didn’t mean to -”

Jack stepped forward, lips curling up into a sneer. Eric had to crane his neck to meet his eye.

“Look, kid,” Jack growled, voice dangerously low. “I’m going to say this once. And I’m not going to say it again. Michelin reviews are coming up. You can either take this seriously, or you can get. The. Hell. Out. Of. My. Kitchen.”

Eric gulped, determined to hold his gaze. Jack’s icy blue eyes felt as if they were burning a hole in the back of his brain. After what seemed like an eternity, Eric choked out a barely-audible “Yes, sir.” 

Satisfied, Jack turned on his heel and stormed off to his station. Eric stood there, letting the humiliating silence wash over him. 

“Come on, back to work, everyone!” Shitty called eventually, sparing him from further humiliation, and Eric let out a shaky breath.

He bent down and picked up the mixing bowl, blinking at his reflection. God, he really was just a kid - curly blonde hair, huge brown eyes, band of freckles running across a button nose. What was he doing here? Why did he think that he could barge into the the kitchen of the son of the world’s most renowned chef, nineteen years old with no experience, and expect to be taken seriously?

The bowl shook in his hands, and he bit his tongue to keep from doing something as pathetic as crying. “Grow up, Eric. Just make the damn pie. Wipe that stupid sneer of Jack’s stupid face.”

Eric took a deep breath. He let it go. And he began to bake.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lord, this chapter felt dumb to write. Also Jack is definitely a jackass. Haha. Fml. If this was too terribly stupid and OOC, please inform me. I'll try to make this a little less corny and dramatic in the future. Maybe. Probably. Possibly.


End file.
